


late-night politics

by DictionaryWrites



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, House of Cards (US TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Banter, Dom/sub Undertones, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Politics, Size Difference
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-28
Updated: 2015-07-28
Packaged: 2018-04-11 18:11:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4446530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DictionaryWrites/pseuds/DictionaryWrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Frank is <i>bored</i>, but entertainment, luckily enough, comes to the door and spreads itself on the sacrificial altar for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	late-night politics

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is Frank Underwood/Harry Potter, set in an AU on my roleplay blog. Harry, post-war, is in the states and has befriended Claire Underwood - that's pretty much all you need to know. The tag for the 'verse on my blog is [just here.](http://wholesoulandcompletelymyown.tumblr.com/tagged/no%20fondness%20for%20politics/chrono)

It’s a little past nine o’clock, and Meechum hovers awkwardly on the doorstep as Frank moves past; the boy is an idiot, not at all comparable to Steve, but Francis supposes he won’t have to deal with him too much. He sets his jacket aside as he walks in, folding it over the back of a chair in the kitchen as he moves to pour for himself a glass of water. The evening is comfortably cool, and the idea of a hot bath is more than appealing.

He’s not interested in calling Zoe, particularly when she’s being so stiflingly SPOILT as of late, but bathing…

His muscles are sore in places, and he rolls his shoulders - yes, a hot bath is exactly what he needs. Claire will be home soon, and he’s in the mood for something: the image comes to him, Claire atop him in the bath, her legs straddling his thighs, her hands on his chest and his steadying her hips, the water shifting beneath the both of them as she rolls herself down onto him.

Yes, that sounds just right.

He glances up when he hears the door, but then he frowns, brow furrowing, because it’s not Claire - someone is knocking. Or at least, Meechum is knocking, likely with some late-night visitor. 

Francis raises his eyebrows when he opens the door, and here is the answer: Harry Potter. Frank stares at him, taking in what the boy is wearing - he doesn’t dress well at the best of times, with his secondhand suits and his six or seven ugly, “vintage” layers, his messy hair and his scuffed shoes, but this is something else.

For once, Potter looks as if he might be found in a fashion magazine - but not the sort of thing Francis might see in his world. His jeans are a dark red, hugging tight to his body and showing the sculpted muscle of the boy’s thighs, the t-shirt tight and emblazoned with the somewhat crass slogan of I HAVE NO GAG REFLEX; the young man’s shoes are almost fashionable, and they’re not nearly so worn as his others. He’s wearing eyeliner, too, the very picture of Republican fear, and Francis looks at him with some amusement on his features.

Meechum has pink on his cheeks, the idiot, and Frank leans on the frame of his front door, gesturing to Potter’s chest.

“Is that true?” He looks down at his chest, as if seeing the filthy message it imparts for the first time, and his pretty green eyes go wide and round as he stares up at Frank. Pretty little moron - it’s not surprising, really, that Claire so enjoys his company.

“Sorry.” Potter says, clipped British vowels a pleasant change from the familiar drawls Francis has heard all day. “I, um, I was just dropping in to bring Claire-”

“Come in.” Francis interrupts him smoothly, stepping back and gesturing for Potter to come inside, shooting Meechum an unimpressed look over Potter’s shoulder as he ushers the little thing into the kitchen. He’s so small - he mustn’t be taller than five foot six, and Francis wonders for a second if he had to buy his fuck-me jeans from the women’s section of whatever store they were sold in. There’s a box in Potter’s hands, and he sets it on the kitchen counter, pushing up the lid and letting Francis see the contents: relatively small muffins, four of them. Home-made. “Low calorie, I’m guessing?” He mutely nods his head. “Smart boy.” Frank murmurs, and he turns away to get Potter a glass of water himself, but he doesn’t miss the way his expression softens and he raises his head at the praise.

SAD, really.

“I’m, um, I’m just on my way out. I figured I’d bring these now, to thank her for the other night.” Frank remembers the other night; he’d seen the boy asleep in the guest room when he’d come in from work, wearing one of Frank’s shirts and with a black eye. He’d seemed even smaller than he already was in Frank’s clothes - Potter is obscenely and unhealthily skinny, in such a way that it pulls at some Southern part of Frank. It’s not paternal, no, because paternity is not to his taste, but there’s some fragment of it that sees the boy’s skinny frame and wants to put four plates of food in front of him and make him eat.

And the eye? Well, the bruise he no longer has. His lip is red and a little swollen, healing up quite nicely, but the bruise should be changing colours by now, and instead it’s the same pale as the rest of his skin. He’s good at make-up, Frank will give him that, and he can’t help but wonder how many hours the boy puts into ensuring he looks pretty for a night out, when for meeting the American president he wears a two decades-old suit and an awkward smile.

Potter sits at one of the stools at Frank’s commanding gesture, and he settles on it with his little feet on the steadying bar between two of the legs. His own wouldn’t touch the ground if he let them loose, and it’d almost be adorable, if Franck had an affection for that sort of thing.

“That’s real kind of you.” Francis comments, setting the glass in front of Potter, and he stares at it, for a second, made-up eyes flickering to meet Frank’s, before he takes it in one of his slim little hands and sips. Just to see how far he can push the boy’s obedience, he puts his index and middle fingers on the base of the glass as he moves to set it on the counter again, arching an eyebrow and fixing his features expectantly.

He sees the boy’s Adam’s apple bob in his throat, a quick shift under the skin, and then he drinks the water properly, finishing the whole thing in several quick gulps as Frank keeps his fingers emphatically on the base. 

It pleases him, really, for Potter to be so obedient, especially when he’s so capable of casting the meekness aside if he’s engaged in political debate. The young man is clever, if a little too shy for Francis’ tastes, and he expects to see the boy progress in the next few months, so long as he’s in the city. Especially with Claire’s influence - perhaps he’ll even get a driver’s license like a modern boy.

He takes the glass from the boy’s hand and sets it on the counter again. 

“I’m sorry for coming by so late, Mr Underwood,” Potter murmurs, staring down at the wooden surface to avoid meeting Francis’ eyes - he’s an anxious little thing, like a spooked deer, and with those big Bambi eyes it’s no real shock to Francis’ system. It’s funny, really, that Frank still gets the fake respect and the Mr. “I’ll go - if you just tell Claire that I-”

“Harry,” Frank purrs, and he reaches to cup the boy’s cheek, forcing him to turn his head to look up at his elder and meet Frank’s gaze. He’s not like Zoe - Claire isn’t going to fuck him, Francis doubts, and what he offers is abstract, but he’s nonetheless as much an enjoyable distraction for Claire as Zoe is for Francis. “You can call me Francis.”

“Oh.” Potter says. “Um– Y-yeah, Francis, okay. But I’ll just-”

“Harry.” Frank interrupts him again, more forcefully this time, and Potter doesn’t even draw his face away from Frank’s grasp, staying there. “Do you want to fuck my wife?” The boy’s face is COMICALLY pale and very rewarding; Francis distinctly enjoys the way the horror spreads across his features as his mouth falls open and his eyes frantically search Francis’ face for some further form of explanation.

“No! No, sir, no, of course not!” 

“Liar.” Francis’ tone is not accusative - in fact, it’s almost teasing, but it seems that Harry Potter’s panic has overtaken his ability to judge a politician’s mood.

“Mr Underwood-”

“Francis.”

“Sir, I don’t-” Francis squeezes Potter by the jaw, forcing his mouth still as he turns his head further, and he stares at the scar on his forehead - he’d never noticed it before, not when he’d had his fringe combed artfully forwards at the first event they’d met at, and not when he’d been asleep in Francis’ guestroom a few days previous. Today, his fringe is combed back, and the scar on his face is pink and plain and shiny in the light, like a lightening bolt.

It looks too defined to have been accidental.

“Someone give you this?” Frank asks. He sees something flash in Potter’s eyes, something almost dangerous, and Francis decides he likes that look, likes it very much indeed. 

“When I was a baby. The man who murdered my parents, actually.” Francis tilts his head, staring at him with surprise on his face - he’d not expected that answer, and Potter’s face is quietly defiant as he grasps Francis’ wrist with his right hand (his fingers are so pale and slender, the hand so much smaller than Frank’s own) and pulls it abruptly from his face. 

“I didn’t know.” Francis says lightly. A stupider man might mistake it for an apology, but Potter isn’t so stupid as he looks.

“I don’t advertise it.”

“You don’t advertise anything.” Francis’ response is an invitation of sorts, to a debate much like the ones they’ve had already, though less political, perhaps.

“Why should I? I’m not a politician.” Frank’s lip twitches. For someone so staunchly not involved in government, he’s more focused on politics than Francis is himself. “I’m not going to flirt with your wife, Francis.”

“Why not?” Francis asks. “She might like it.” The defiance is cracked, and suddenly he’s the picture of pretty innocence again, pink lips curving into a round O with the one side darkened red. Frank leans down, and he draws his thumb over the line of Potter’s sternum, over the disgusting little invitation on his shirt. “You never told me if this was true.”

“Of course it’s not true, sir.” Potter says, stiffening his clean-shaven jaw. “I can relax mine, though. It took a lot of practice.” It’s almost assertive. It’s definitely provocative. He’s attracted to Claire, yes, but he’s attracted to Frank as well - in fact, Frank would be willing to bet he’d take his clothes off for a fair few of his coworkers.

Some boys are just easily pleased.

“I’ll bet.” Frank murmurs. “Get up.” Potter does, kicking back the stool, and before he looks to Frank he closes up the little card box with the muffins he’d made for Claire. And then Potter looks up at him, lips pressed together, expression a twisted scowl. “Come here.” Potter takes one step closer. “Tell me you want to fuck my wife.”

“No.” Potter says. 

“Because you don’t want to?” 

“I’m leaving now. Clubs will be closed.” It’s a poor excuse, but Frank doesn’t mind.

“You going to a gay bar?” Potter stops short for a second, like he does on a lot of fairly normal questions, but he regains himself. 

“I guess.”

“Come here.” Potter takes another step closer. Their chests are an inch apart, and the boy’s only a little taller than Zoe. The same height as Claire. Francis transplants Potter into the bath, straddling Francis’ lap, hands on Frank’s chest–

But no. He’s not interested in intimacy. He just wants to fuck the boy. “How old are you?”

“Twenty four.” Francis puts his fingers in the belt loops of Potter’s jeans and pulls him against his body, pulling abruptly enough that the kid almost stumbles and his hands spread across the white fabric of Francis’ shirt. “How old are you?” Francis clucks his tongue.

“Rude.”

“Forty five?”

“How generous of you.” Frank murmurs, and he grasps Potter by the hips, pushing him back slightly and then reaching for the zip of his jeans. His fingers move with rapidity and a necessary dexterity, and he likes the way the boy leans to make it easier for him. “And you said you’re not a politician.”

Potter’s jeans slide down easily, underwear going down along with them, but before Frank can bend him over the counter he’s up on his tip-toes and his mouth is on Francis’. He’s not a terrible kisser, by any means, and in fact does so with some finesse, but he lacks the usual excitement of a man his age.

Francis isn’t sure whether to be disappointed or pleasantly surprised.

“Bend over.” Francis orders, cleanly. Now that he’s likely to get something, he wants it, and Potter’s just not moving fast enough; he puts two square packets into Frank’s hand, a condom, and a packet of lube. “Why, I guess you were a boy scout.”

“What’s a boy scout?” Francis almost laughs. He even believes the innocence of the question - boy can’t even drive.

“Bend over.” Francis repeats, and Potter does.

 —

Frank is nursing a drink when Claire comes in, and he sips at it slightly, offering her a welcoming smile as she enters the living room. She looks to the side, where Potter’s skinny limbs are akimbo in the armchair he’s curled in, his clothes rumpled, his hair a sweat-damp, sex-mussed mess, a new bite purpling pretty on his neck: he looks well-fucked, and it had taken little effort to coax him into falling asleep in their front room.

Apparently a bit of rough treatment makes him even more malleable than one might expect.

Claire meets his gaze. “Really?”

“I hope you don’t mind.” Francis says sweetly, and Claire’s lip twitches. She takes a step forwards, setting her coat and bag aside, and she reaches out to curl her fingers in the dark locks of Potter’s hair. 

He stirs, looking up at Claire blearily through the glasses that are still on his nose. “I brought you muffins.” The words come sleepily. Frank feels satisfaction.

“I know. Go back to sleep.”

“Alright.” Potter mumbles, and he lets his head tip back again. He’s very trusting, where Claire - and Frank as well, it seems like - is concerned. It’s almost charming. Claire strokes his cheek, and then she comes to kiss Frank, greeting him like she always does when she comes home.

They can talk about the boy come the morning, when he’s gone. 


End file.
